


Go Ask Arthur

by involuntaryorange



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: All The Tropes, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Radio, Humor, I listened to a lot of Love Phones as an adolescent, M/M, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-05-08 06:32:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5487167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/involuntaryorange/pseuds/involuntaryorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur runs a call-in sex advice radio show. Sometimes he gets prank calls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Magnum

**Author's Note:**

> I was like "if Arthur had a sex advice radio show, Eames would totally call in every night with a different identity and a different ridiculous problem." And then this happened. Not sure where I'm going with it yet!
> 
> (Also, I'm writing and posting this on my tablet, so sorry if there are any weird typos or formatting glitches.)

“...So, in short, no, you can’t get your girlfriend pregnant from sharing underwear, unless you’re both wearing them at the same time and your penis is inside of her,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes at Ariadne through the window.

“Oh my god, okay, thanks,” the boy responds with evident relief, and there’s a click as he hangs up.

“Well,” Arthur continues into the microphone, “let’s add that one to the ever-growing ‘why comprehensive sex ed is crucial’ pile, shall we?” He mouths  _ Aren’t you supposed to be screening these?  _ at Ariadne, who just shrugs and smirks like she knew exactly what she was doing. Which she did. Ariadne likes to throw a clunker in every once in a while -- “to keep you on your toes,” she says, but Arthur knows it’s really just to remind them who’s really in control of this show.

“I think it’s time for a commercial break. Remember, if you have any burning questions about sex and/or love -- including burning questions about that burning sensation -- call in at 1-800-555-SEXQ. I’ll be right back with more Go Ask Arthur.”

Arthur takes off his headphones and rubs at his eyes. Helming a sex advice call-in show sounds like it should be exciting, but there are only so many “am I pregnant?” and “what is this bump on my testicle?” calls that you can field before it gets a little repetitive. He’s tempted to send Ariadne out for a cup of coffee, but a) she’s currently screening calls for the next segment, and b) she would just laugh in his face and tell him to get his own coffee. So instead he closes his eyes and waits out the break.

“Welcome back to Go Ask Arthur, where I answer all of the questions you’re too embarrassed to ask your friends, doctor, or priest. Who’s our next caller, Ari?”

“We’ve got Freddie on the line,” Ariadne responds.

“Okay. Hi, Freddie.”

“Hello.” The man’s voice is warm and deep, a sharp contrast to the halting, anxious voices that usually call in. He has some sort of foreign accent that Arthur can’t place.

“How can I help you, Freddie?”

“Well, Arthur, the problem is that I seem to have an unusually large penis.”

Arthur levels an unimpressed look at Ariadne. What exactly  _ is _ her job, if it isn’t getting Arthur coffee or filtering out the prank callers? Unsurprisingly, his show gets a lot of joke calls, but Arthur has a policy of never taking the bait, always responding as though the question were genuine. At least he can use the opportunity to educate some listeners.

“Really,” Arthur says, unimpressed.

“Oh, yes. I have been reliably informed that it is, and this is a quote, ‘an absolute monster of a cock.’”

“Ah. I’ve gotta say, Freddie, I’m not seeing the problem here.”

“Oh! Well, you see, it makes it difficult to have sex with partners.”

Arthur sighs. “I see. You know, the vagina can expand to accommodate an infant, so unless you’re packing a 10-pound schlong over there, I think you really just need to work on your foreplay. You have to work your way up to penetrative sex; you can’t just jam your dick into a woman. No matter how big or small it might be.”

There’s a short pause, and Arthur wonders if he’s intimidated the caller into hanging up. No such luck. “That is extremely thoughtful advice, and it would be very helpful if I were having sex with women.” Freddie clicks his tongue in remonstration. “So heteronormative, Arthur.”

Arthur drives the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “Okay. I apologize. You’re right, I shouldn’t have assumed. And that does change the situation somewhat. Have you considered bottoming?”

“Of course,” Freddie says, sounding slightly offended, though Arthur isn’t sure whether it’s because Arthur suggested he’s an idiot or because Arthur suggested he was sexually unadventurous. “But it would be nice to switch it up once in a while, you know?”

“Right. Well. Assuming your partners actually  _ want _ to bottom--”

“I would never,” Freddie begins with a huff.

“Okay, okay, just getting that out of the way. Assuming they want to bottom, the advice isn’t actually all that different. You have to work your way up to it, and your fingers probably aren’t going to be enough. You’re going to want to invest in some quality dildos of varying sizes, and don’t expect it to happen in one sitting, so to speak. Oh, and lube. I cannot overemphasize the importance of quality lube.”

There’s another pause.

“Thank you, Arthur, that is very helpful. This has been most edifying.”

“Great, Freddie, I’m glad to hear it. Good luck with your absolute monster of a cock.” Arthur hits the “end call” button and throws Ariadne a glare that would cause lesser mortals to shrink in fear. She smiles and waves.

“So. That was an... interesting call. Ari, who’s next, and if you tell me that it’s ‘Richard Head’ asking if my refrigerator is running, I am going to fire you. I don’t care if I don’t have the authority.”

“Technically  _ I _ can fire  _ you _ ,” Ariadne says. “And next we have Brittany.”

Arthur takes a bracing breath. “Hi Brittany. How can I help you tonight?”

“Um,” a timid voice begins, “so I have this, like, pimple thing down there…”

Arthur decides now would be a good time for a nap.


	2. Sweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames is juggling sugar packets when a customer walks in.

Eames is seeing how many sugar packets he can keep in the air at once when the bell over the door announces a customer. His juggling instructor would be appalled that such a trivial distraction causes him to fumble, sending little brown sachets raining down around him, but then again she might understand if she could seen the windswept slice of loveliness whose arrival the bell was heralding.

The man finger-combs his hair back into submission -- a shame, that -- and raises an eyebrow at Eames. “Is this a coffee shop or a circus?”

“If it were a circus, I would have been juggling  _ flaming _ sugar sachets. So a coffee house it is.” Eames sweeps the fallen packets into a rough pile with his foot and smiles at the man brightly. “What can I get for you?”

The man doesn’t bother looking at the menu, just says, “Large latte, three extra shots. To go.”

Eames pauses as he writes down the order on the cup. “That’s quite a lot of caffeine for nine at night.”

The man shrugs. “I work late.”

“All right then.” Eames finishes writing the order down and tries fruitlessly to avoid fantasizing about what sort of nighttime work this man might do. “Name?”

The man looks pointedly around the cafe. “I am literally the only person here.”

“Yes, well.You never know when the evening rush might arrive!”

“Is that something you get? An evening rush?”

“Well, not as such,” Eames admits, turning to the machines to prepare the drink. “But soon, I’m sure.”

“It might help if you change the name.”

Eames turns his head to frown at the man. The name was the first thing he’d come up with. “What’s wrong with the name?”

“Sweet Dreams? It sounds like a mattress store. People get coffee so they  _ don’t _ fall asleep.”

Eames  _ hmph _ s at that, although he has to do it very loudly to be heard over the sounds of the espresso machine. “Well, when you open up  _ your _ coffee shop, you can call it The Insomniac Emporium or whatever other terrible name you like.”

The man laughs, one sharp report. “I was thinking ‘Better Than Cocaine.’”

“That’s setting the bar awfully high, don’t you think?”

“Well, I have to do  _ something _ to lure away your faithful clientele.” The man gestures to the empty seats.

“Low blow, darling.” Eames finishes off the top of the latte and passes it over to the man, who accepts it with visible relief. When he takes his first sip Eames is almost  _ certain _ that he makes a small sound of satisfaction, and if he didn’t, well, Eames will add one in anyway when he looks back on the moment.

“Thanks, man,” the stranger says, turning his coat collar up against the wind as he walks out the door. The bell jingles his departure and Eames is once again alone.

If he’s being honest, business hasn’t exactly been booming since Eames bought out the failing Starbucks that used to inhabit the storefront. The mornings can be somewhat busy, with people stopping by to pick up their morning coffee and pastry on their way to work, but the evenings tend to drag on with very little to occupy Eames’s time. He’s not really worried about the money -- if money were an issue, he wouldn’t have opened up a cafe -- but he gets bored.

He practices juggling a bit more, and when he gets tired of that he tries to see if he can remember all the words to “I am the Very Model of a Modern Major General.” When he discovers that he can -- to his delight or to his dismay, he’s not sure -- he moves on to rattling off the colors of Joseph’s Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, but he’s pretty sure “puce” and “greenish yellow but not too greenish” weren’t on the original list. He alphabetizes his syrups, then arranges them in color order, then groups them by genre.

When the clock finally strikes ten, Eames flicks on the old radio that a Starbucks employee left behind, just as Go Ask Arthur is starting. He discovered the show a few weeks ago when he’d been particularly desperate for something to do; when he realized there was a sex advice call-in show he figured he’d hate-listen to it, but he wound up enjoying it despite himself. The “Arthur” fellow who hosts the programme actually knows what he’s talking about, and Eames appreciates his low tolerance for bullshit. Plus he’s funny, and he has a nice voice.

The problem is the callers: they’re not just idiots, they’re  _ boring _ idiots. Eames can tell that Arthur thinks they’re boring, too. Which is why a few days ago Eames decided to call in.

It wasn’t a  _ prank _ call, exactly -- for one thing, Eames is several decades too old to be making prank calls. For another thing, though, the whole point was to make the show  _ better _ , and to give the eponymous Arthur something new to talk about. At least, that’s how Eames justified it to himself. And it had worked! People had learned something, and Arthur had finally seemed  _ present _ .

Which is probably why, when Eames emerges from his reverie to catch the tail end of Arthur’s exasperated explanation of why two condoms is  _ not _ safer than one, he picks up his phone and dials the number again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, this is also a COFFEESHOP AU _and_ a MISTAKEN IDENTITY AU. I'm checking so many boxes off my "favorite tropes" bingo card with this one.


	3. Arriving at the Station

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I don't even know, you guys.

“So just remember, double-bagging it is only a good idea with groceries. If you’re worried about your condom failing, pair it with a second method of birth control. Which I would recommend in any case. Ari, who’s next?”

“Our next caller is Jacques,” Ari says. Ari’s contributions to the show consist mainly of telling Arthur who the next caller is, yet she gets dozens of fan e-mails every week and has a Facebook page devoted to her. Arthur once vanity-Googled his name and all he found was a message board where people were wondering if he was ugly and that was why he was on the radio.

“Okay. Hi, Jacques.”

“Ello?”

“Yes, Jacques, can you hear me?” It’s an annoyingly frequent occurrence that Arthur has to remind his callers to turn off their radios so that they don’t get caught in a delayed feedback loop.

“Ah, yes, hello, Arthur,” Jacques says, although he has a thick French accent so it sounds more like “Artoor.”

“What can I help you with, Jacques?”

“Well, it is a bit embarrassing,” Jacques hedges.

“All the better,” Arthur replies. “Let’s get it out in the open.”

“I suppose you are right. The problem is this: I like to think about trains when I am, how do you say, making the love.”

Arthur pauses as he tries to sort through Jacques’s accent. “You like to think about… teens?”

“Non, non --  _ trains _ . You know, with the choo choo?”

“Right, I am familiar with the concept of trains,” Arthur says, becoming suspicious. “So you like to… think about them, when you’re having sex.”

“Oui.”

“Well,” Arthur says with a sigh, “anyone who’s seen North by Northwest knows that trains are often viewed as phallic symbols. So you’re just engaging in metaphorical imagery.”

“I like to make the train noises when I -- how do you say -- when I go.”

“When you--” Arthur shoots Ariadne another futile glare. “You like to make train noises when you come?”

“Yes, yes, that is the phrase I was looking for. I have been told that it is very distracting.”

Arthur mimes cutting his throat to Ariadne, who just smiles sharkily. “Right. And is that your problem?”

“Oui, yes. Sometimes the ladies, they are so startled that they fall out of the bed!”

“Ah,” Arthur says. “Well, you should probably warn them ahead of time.”

“They say that the train whistle is very loud in their ears.”

“The-- you have a  _ train whistle _ in bed?”

“But of course. It is easy enough to make the ‘chug-a-chug-a’ noise while we are doing the lovemaking, but the whistle, it is impossible to produce with the human voice.”

“Okay,” Arthur says, wondering how he let this call get so out of hand. “Here’s what you do. You sign up for a fetlife account. You find someone who’s as into trains as you are. Maybe she’ll even wear one of those striped conductor’s hats for you.”

“Do you think?!” Jacques exclaims, sounding delighted. “Oh, that would be so wonderful!”

“Yes,” Arthur says, levelly. “I’m sure there’s some lucky lady out there, just waiting for your train to pull into her station.”

“Merci, Arthur! You have given an old man new hope!”

“An old-- how old are we talking?” Arthur asks, but “Jacques” has already hung up.

Arthur takes a fortifying sip of his coffee, which has gone cold but still tastes good. “Right. Ari, haven’t we talked about not letting prank callers through?”

“What prank caller?” Ariadne asks, feigning confusion. “Jacques was a man with a very serious sexual dilemma. You shouldn’t kinkshame him.”

“Right. Of course.” Arthur has learned a thing or two about fighting losing battles. “Let’s move on, shall we?"

The next caller thinks her girlfriend is cheating on her and is wondering whether she should hack into her e-mail to spy on her. Arthur takes refuge from his boredom in his coffee, which is really quite good.


	4. Towering Confections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time when Handsome Café Patron — HCP, for short — shows up, Eames is not juggling sugar packets. He’s balancing a carafe on his chin, instead.

This time when Handsome Café Patron — HCP, for short — shows up, Eames is not juggling sugar packets. He’s balancing a carafe on his chin, instead.

“I see business is booming,” HCP says, and Eames barely prevents the carafe from dropping to the floor and shattering.

“Darling! You’re back!” Eames gives him his best customer service grin.

“Yeah, well. You’re on the way to work.”

“And the coffee was…?” Eames prompts.

“Caffeinated?”

Eames crosses his arms.

“Fine,” HCP says, “it was fantastic. It was transcendent. It was, actually, better than cocaine.”

Eames smiles again, this time genuinely. “I may have to quote you on that in the shop’s publicity. ‘Actually better than cocaine,’ says…” He looks at HCP expectantly.

“You know, I don’t think I want my actual name attached to that quote.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll just make up a name for you. Large latte, three extra shots, to go?”

HCP looks surprised. “You remember my order? I’ve only been here once.”

“I have a memory like a steel trap,” Eames says, grabbing a cup and scribbling on it with his marker. “Ask me who won the Rugby World Cup in any of the past fifty years.”

“Uh, okay. 1983?”

“Wales.”

“...I have no idea if that’s correct or not.”

“Yes, I was rather counting on that,” Eames says as he finishes pulling a double shot. “Working the late shift again?”

“Yeah, I always work late.”

“And what do you do?”

HCP seems to hesitate. “I’m sort of a journalist.”

“‘Sort of’ a journalist? And what do you ‘sort of’ cover?”

“Oh, y’know. All kinds of stuff.” HCP shrugs.

Eames is intrigued, but he knows better than to attack this particular puzzle head-on. “Admit it, darling -- you just love cultivating an air of mystery about yourself. I’ll bet your name is John and you’re an accountant.”

HCP, sadly, does not take the bait, but merely shrugs again. “Suit yourself. But I’m not doing your taxes. Thanks,” he says, as Eames hands him his drink. He takes a careful sip and sighs contentedly. “Seriously, do you actually put cocaine in this?”

“Mm, no, my ‘Eccentric Englishman’ shtick can only get me out of so much trouble, alas. I have a mate who roasts the beans — Yusuf — and he’s a bit of a miracle worker.”

“Well, Yusuf is my new hero,” HCP says. Eames feels a pang of irrational jealousy. He’s tempted to point out that his espresso-making skills are equally vital to the process, but he doesn’t want to sound desperate for praise. Never mind that he apparently _is_ desperate for praise, albeit only from this one particular person.

“I shall relay your compliments,” Eames says, instead.

HCP hands over a few dollars and pops a lid onto his cup. “Thanks for the coffee, I’ll probably see you again tomo—” He stops talking as he squints at his cup. “ _Mr. Grumpy_?”

“As I said, if you won’t tell me your name, I’ll just have to make one up for you.” _And Handsome Café Patron won’t fit on the cup_ , Eames doesn’t say.

“Well, okay, but Mr. Grumpy?”

“I’d be more than happy to replace the current appellation with a more accurate one. But I fear that the only one that would be more accurate is your actual name.”

HCP rolls his eyes and takes another sip of his coffee. “Mr. Grumpy it is. See you later.”

Eames watches the door swing shut behind him — all right, so maybe he’s not watching the door so much as watching the view of HCP’s arse _through_ the door — and scrubs a hand through his hair in mild frustration of both the standard and the sexual kind.

His reverie is interrupted by a gaggle of high school students pouring into the café, who order towering frozen confections containing quantities of sugar that only adolescents can get away with consuming. They drape themselves across several tables and Eames is glad, both for the business and for the opportunity to eavesdrop on teenage gossip, which always makes him feel a bit nostalgic.

But he’s also glad when they trickle out of the shop at five to ten, because he has an appointment he doesn’t want to miss with his radio.


	5. The Fountain of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another prank call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on the rails with this story, hopefully. You can thank katie for her brilliant WIP Amnesty Day idea.
> 
> The idea for Eames's prank call in this chapter emerged from a Twitter conversation with earlgreytea68 and kedgeree11. Thank you for being my partners in insanity, guys!

Arthur spins his empty cup idly while the mattress ad plays for the billionth time. The coffee got him through four questions about accidental pregnancies, two questions about suspicious rashes, and one lecture about enthusiastic consent, and he’s only got fifteen minutes left before he can close up shop.

Five dollars well spent, in his opinion. He’s glad he stumbled across this new coffeeshop — _not_ because the proprietor is British and has lips like he tried to make out with a vacuum cleaner, but because the coffee really is exceptional. Ariadne gave him shit about the “Mr. Grumpy” written on his coffee cup, of course, because Ariadne has never passed up an opportunity to give Arthur shit about something. She threatened to call him that on the air, but he told her that if she did, he would inform the world that “Ari” was short for “Ariadne,” and the threat of mutually assured destruction was thankfully enough to deter her.

Arthur can’t really explain why he hasn’t told the guy at the coffee shop his actual name, except that this is literally the only time in his life that anyone has ever thought of him as intriguing. For once he’d rather be Mr. Grumpy, Coffee Patron of Mystery than Arthur, Stodgy Person with Equally Stodgy Name.

He knows why he didn’t tell the guy his real job; he doesn’t tell _anyone_ his real job, because he’s learned from experience that when you tell someone you run a sex advice radio show, they usually don’t know what to say — or worse, they _do_ know what to say, and what they have to say is a question that tells Arthur way more about their sex lives than he wanted to know.

And if that someone is a prospective romantic partner — not that coffee shop proprietor _is,_ although Arthur certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed, except maybe to make Arthur coffee — then they tend to mistakenly assume that Arthur’s sex expertise (sexpertise?) comes from hands-on experience, and that leads to a whole raft of other erroneous assumptions that either turns them off or turns them on, neither of which really works to Arthur’s benefit.

So for five minutes while he waits for his coffee, Arthur is happy to be a nameless, mysterious journalist.

Ari signals to Arthur through the window, and Arthur pushes his headset back into place as the commercial break ends.

“Welcome back to Go Ask Arthur. We’re in our final stretch for the evening; who do you have for me, Ari?”

“Our next caller is Ricardo,” Ariadne answers.

“Hi, Ricardo, you’re on the air.”

“Hola, Arthur!” say a man with a thick Spanish accent.

“What’s your question, Ricardo?”

“Well,” Ricardo says, “I have some questions about etiquette.”

“Sexual etiquette?” Arthur prepares himself to deliver his “enthusiastic consent” lecture for a second time in one night.

“Sí. I am throwing a — _cómo se dice?_ — a orgy, and I am wondering what sort of refreshments would be appropriate.”

Arthur glances up at Ariadne, who is studiously examining her nails.

“You’re… throwing an orgy.”

“Sí, that is what you call it when the people all get naked and do making love, no?”

“Yup, that’s what it’s called.” Arthur picks at the plastic lid of his cup and idly wonders why all his prank callers recently have been foreign. It takes him longer than he’d like to admit to apply Occam’s razor, given that, now that he thinks about it, the voices have all sounded the same aside from the accent.

A serial offender, then. Arthur has to admire his perseverance, not to mention his creativity.

Arthur tunes back into the call, where “Ricardo” is saying something about his local stationery store refusing to print the orgy invitations. “And the caterers too are refusing, so you see, I must provide the food and drinks myself. I have much _vino_ , _naturalmente_ , but I do not know what else.”

Yeah, Arthur definitely has to admire the guy’s creativity. “Well,” he says, “you should definitely have a lot of water; staying hydrated is important.”

“Ah, water. This is a good idea.”

“Maybe sparkling water, if you’re feeling fancy. And that can also be used as a stain remover, so, you know, two birds with one stone.”

“You are brilliant, Arthur!” Ricardo exclaims.

“As for food,” Arthur continues, “you probably don’t want anything smelly, like tuna. And definitely nothing that will make people gassy. Oh, and this is just personal preference, but don’t put out corn on the cob. It’s impossible to look sexy while eating corn on the cob.”

“ _Interesante_.”

“Nobody’s really coming to an orgy for the snacks, so I think you should just put a few crudité trays and some fruit salad and be done with it.” Ricardo _hmm_ s in apparent agreement. “And don’t forget to put out lots of condoms. And lube.”

“I will not forget the lube, _por supuesto_. There will be a lube fountain!”

“A… lube fountain?”

“Yes, a fountain of lube. It will be _muy sensual_.”

“I’m probably going to regret asking this, but what is a lube fountain?”

“It is like a chocolate, ah, a chocolate fountain, but with lube. I say it is like — it _is_ a chocolate fountain. But I clean it very well of the chocolate. It is very beautiful. It makes the lube _caliente_.”

“This sounds _incredibly_ unhygienic,” Arthur says. “I mean, how do people actually get the lube? Are there spoons? I hope they’re single-use.”

“No, no, no. Do you use a spoon for a chocolate fountain? No you do not. You put what you want the chocolate on, yes? So with the lube fountain.”

“So guests are just going to… stick their dicks in the lube fountain?”

“Sí! And fingers. And, _cómo se dice_ , dildos.”

“I cannot in good conscience sign off on this plan,” Arthur says. “The contamination risks are _way_ too high. I’m getting a little nauseated just thinking about it.”

Ricardo sighs dramatically over the line. “I suppose the ice sculpture will be centerpiece enough. Do you think it should be, _cómo se dice_ , circumcised?”

“You’re going to have an ice sculpture of a penis at your orgy? What am I saying, _of course_ you’re going to have an ice sculpture of a penis at your orgy.”

Ariadne makes a twirling hand gesture that Arthur assumes means they’re out of time. He has to assume because she has never before needed to tell Arthur when it’s time to end; normally he has his eyes riveted on the clock for at least the last ten minutes of the program.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to end there, Ricardo,” Arthur says. “Good luck with your orgy.”

“Gracias, Arthur!”

“De nada,” Arthur says, before hanging up. “Well, we’re out of time for tonight, but I’ll be back tomorrow to answer more of your embarrassing questions. Until then, goodnight and good sex.”

Ariadne signals the cut-off and Arthur removes his headset. “Seriously?” he asks as he opens the door between them.

“What?” Ariadne says, clearly trying to look as innocent as possible.

“You know all those prank callers are actually the same person.”

“Um, yeah, I’m not an idiot.” Ariadne rolls her eyes.

“Why are you letting them through?”

“Because they’re funny,” Ariadne says as she puts on her sweater and grabs her messenger bag. “And you enjoy them.”

“I don’t _enjoy_ them,” Arthur protests. “I _tolerate_ them.”

“Oh, you enjoy them,” Ariadne says, walking backwards into the hallway. “It’s literally the only time you smile during the broadcast.”

“I don’t smile!” Arthur calls after her.

“You get dimples, Arthur. _Dimples_!” The door swings shut, but Arthur can see Ariadne mouthing the word “DIMPLES” through the glass as she walks away. He tries to give her the finger but she’s already facing the other direction.

He sighs, throws his empty coffee cup into the trash, and starts to pack up his stuff.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [WIP Amnesty Podflashes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7525273) by [flosculatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flosculatory/pseuds/flosculatory)




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